But Robert's believing
eyes justified confidence, and Ericson had never had any one to talk
to. He rose again, opened a cupboard at his side, took out some
papers, threw them on the table, and, taking his hat, walked towards
the door.
'Which of your strings is broken?' he asked.
'The third,' answered Robert.
'I will get you one,' said Ericson; and before Robert could reply he
was down the stair. Robert heard him cough, then the door shut, and
he was gone in the rain and fog.
Bewildered, unhappy, ready to fly after him, yet irresolute, Robert
almost mechanically turned over the papers upon the little deal
table. He was soon arrested by the following verses, headed
A NOONDAY MELODY.
Everything goes to its rest;
The hills are asleep in the noon;
And life is as still in its nest
As the moon when she looks on a moon
In the depths of a calm river's breast
As it steals through a midnight in June.
The streams have forgotten the sea
In the dream of their musical sound;
The sunlight is thick on the tree,
And the shadows lie warm on the ground--
So still, you may watch them and see
Every breath that awakens around.
The churchyard lies still in the heat,
With its handful of mouldering bone;
As still as the long stalk of wheat
In the shadow that sits by the stone,
As still as the grass at my feet
When I walk in the meadows alone.
The waves are asleep on the main,
And the ships are asleep on the wave;
And the thoughts are as still in my brain
As the echo that sleeps in the cave;
All rest from their labour and pain--
Then why should not I in my grave?
His heart ready to burst with a sorrow, admiration, and devotion,
which no criticism interfered to qualify, Robert rushed out into the
darkness, and sped, fleet-footed, along the only path which Ericson
could have taken.
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